


Keyed Up

by ProseApothecary



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Neighbours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 06:42:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19290328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProseApothecary/pseuds/ProseApothecary
Summary: Patrick is the perfect neighbour.





	Keyed Up

David checks his wallet for the third time, hoping the key will magically reappear. At that moment, his grocery bag splits. Several blocks of chocolate and a packet of crisps fall out. A pomelo, his one attempt at eating like an adult, rolls across the floor and tumbles down the stairs.

_Well, fuck._

He slides down his door and checks his phone. Ten o’clock. A little too late to see the landlord that already hates him. He briefly ponders how many murders happen in apartment corridors.

He hears steps and suddenly his neighbour is at the top of the stairs, holding a pomelo and looking confused. He looks at David, an island in a sea of groceries, and hands it over.

“I think this is yours.”

“Thanks.” He tries to remember the man’s name. “Briii-”

“Patrick.”

“Yep. I was getting there.”

“Mm. Everything okay there, Davis?”

“Oh, it’s Da-”

“I know,” Patrick says with a wink. ”Do you need some help?”

David thinks. “Do you have, like, a spare blanket or something? Because I’ve lost my key, and it seems I may have to try my hand at sleeping on the streets.”

“Not technically the streets, though, is it?”

“Corridors are the streets of buildings, Patrick.”

Patrick gets his key out. “You can sleep at mine tonight.”

David is taken aback. “You just let people sleep at your apartment? I could be a murderer.”

Patrick looks at the avalanche of food surrounding David. “Frankly, I don’t think you’d be an effective assassin.”

David frowns.  “Well that’s-”

“I can get you some blankets if you prefer. Just be warned, sometimes No. 32 likes to vacuum the corridor floors at three am.”

David sighs and gets up. “Ok. Just don’t murder me, and we’ll make it a mutual thing.”

“I’ll try my best.”

Patrick unlocks the door and goes to pick up a one kilo bag of marshmallows from the floor.

“Having a party?”

“Uh, no.”

David picks up the rest of the food and heads inside.

 

David looks around Patrick’s apartment. It’s mostly clean and sleek, with photos and mementos showing little bursts of Patrick.

He points to a foosball table in the middle of the living room. “Apart from that, this is _actually_ really nice.”

“Could you try that again, sounding a little less shocked?”

“It’s just that isn’t exactly a building of aesthetes.”

“The girl next door wanted to know how to get Kool-Aid out of a futon, so I beg to disagree.”

“Suddenly very glad I’m not spending the night at her place.”

Patrick hovers around the kitchen. “Can I get you anything? Tea, a snack…?”                              

David looks down at the food in his arms. “I think I’m pretty well-stocked.”

“Right. Well, bedroom’s down the hall, you can use the phone charger in there if you want-”

“Oh, I can sleep on the couch,” says David, suddenly feeling guilty.

“Uh if I let you do that, my mother is going to sense a disturbance in the universe and come over here to chastise me.”

“Ok,” says David, who’s really not going to argue the point.

“Goodnight, David.”

“Goodnight, Patrick.”

 

David walks into the kitchen the next morning to see Patrick making pancakes.

“Morning. You want some?”

“Four please.”

 

They sit down at the small table to eat.

“Do you want backup to go see the landlord? Eve can be a little prickly, but ever since I brought her cookies, we’ve had an understanding of sorts.”

David feels the heat rise to his cheeks. “I don’t think that will be necessary. It’s a funny story, really, but um, when I rolled onto my side last night, I may have noticed a jagged, key-like shape poking into my spleen from my pocket, so…uh. Mystery solved.”

Patrick gives him an assessing look. “You really would’ve been a terrible assassin.”

“I _was_ going to thank you for letting me stay, but now…”

Patrick smiles at him, and David shovels more pancake in to try and halt whatever feelings that inspires.

 

Patrick sees David to the door. “By the way, I’m having a bit of a house party this Friday. If you’re interested, you’d be more than welcome. You could bring your bag of marshmallows.”

“Oh the marshmallows will be long gone by then, but uh. Sure.  Sounds fun.”

Patrick grins. “Great. I’ll see you there. Just don’t forget your key.”

“Wow,” says David, walking down the corridor. “Thanks so much for that.”

 

David changes sweaters five times before deciding that there’s a difference between fashionably late and slack. He forces himself to stick with a floral black and white print, and heads over to Patrick’s.

The instant he walks in, he’s assaulted by team colours. He couldn’t tell you which teams, exactly, but a football hurtling past his face gives him a bit of a clue.

A tipsy-looking girl in mom-jeans launches herself upwards, grabs the football and puts a hand on his shoulder. “My bad. I was not expecting someone to walk through that door…half an hour late. What’s happening is a _travesty_.”

“Like, in here? Or in the world?”

She walks over and thumps the TV.  “In _here_. I mean, also in the world, probably.”

 “Um, have you seen Patrick?”

“He’s in the kitchen.”

He sidles past people to get to the kitchen where Patrick is kneading dough. He seems surprised to see David.

“Hey there.”

“Looks like someone forgot to mention that this was a football party.”

“Well, I wanted you to come. Just think of it as a party where people happening to be watching football.”

“And throwing footballs around.”

Patrick’s face falls. “God, not again.” He yells out to the crowd. “Stevie, I can’t get another hole in the wall.” He turns to David. “You didn’t come in through a chasm in the side of your apartment, did you?”

“No chasms. I think you’re safe.”

“For now, at least,” Patrick agrees. “I’m a little behind, do you want to help me finish up the cooking?”

“Hm. That had the syntax of a question, but the cadence of a statement.”

“Oh, you’re very welcome to go out there and watch the football instead.”

“…What are we making?”

“Garbage bread.”

David gives him a dubious look.

“It tastes nicer than it sounds, I promise. We just need to sprinkle some toppings on and roll it up.”

David goes straight for the cheese.

 

Half an hour later, Patrick’s handing David a warm slice of garbage bread.

“Mm. Shockingly good.”

“One day you’re going to stop being surprised that I have skills.”

David smiles. “Don’t count on it.”

Patrick’s phone beeps and he checks a message. “…Looks like Twyla got lost somewhere on the fourth floor. I’ll be right back.”

“You’re leaving me to the jocks?”

Patrick gives him a sympathetic look. “Stevie!” he yells out to the crowd. “David thinks he can beat you at foosball.”

“…Was that you helping?”

“I think you two will get on. And if she’s playing foosball she’s not throwing footballs at my wall, so…”

Stevie walks in. “I did not waste 3 years of college in my dorm’s rec room for someone to claim he’s _better_ at foosball.”

“Have fun,” says Patrick offhandedly as Stevie drags David over to the foosball table.

 

They return to find David and Stevie in fierce competition.

“David, this is Twyla, Twyla-”

“We know each other,” David says.

“Oh yeah,” Twyla says. “We met in the laundry room, where David was swearing at a dryer-”

“The where isn’t really important,” David interrupts.

“Are you sure?” asks Stevie. “It seems important.”

David glares at her. “Have you ever wondered why your favourite sport is just making dolls kick things? It sounds very Freudian.”

The ball rolls into David’s goal and Stevie grins. “Looks like my dolls kick better than yours. You’re still better than Patrick, though.”

“Cruel,” says Patrick. “Cruel and unnecessary.“

“Oh so you _don’t_ actually have skills.”

Seeing the glance David shoots Patrick, it suddenly occurs to Stevie that she may be meant to wingwoman here.

“He has one or two. Makes mean pancakes.”

“I know. I’ve had them.” Realisation dawns on David when he notices Twyla and Stevie looking at him. “Not like…we haven’t…”

“David slept over because he lost his key,” Patrick jumps in helpfully.

“Did you get it back?” asks Stevie.

“Well, technically it was in my pocket the whole time, but I _thought_ I lost it.”

“Oh,” says Stevie knowingly.

David opens his mouth to protest before a football lands in the middle of them and helpfully ends the conversation.

 

David’s usual party policy is arrive late, leave early. But he feels like he might owe Patrick a favour. And Patrick is just tipsy enough that he keeps trying and failing to throw rubbish into the trash from across the room. So David stays, and helps clean up.

“Score,” says Patrick, as he aims for the bin and ends up landing a packet of chips in a flowerpot.

David wrinkles his nose. “Did you, though?”

Patrick smiles at him helplessly then stumbles over to the couch. “I’m just going to have a quick nap. See you in 5.”

“Ok,” says David, “um, before you go to sleep for the next 12 hours. I’m having a party next Saturday. Are you interested?”

Patrick says something that’s muffled by the couch cushion. David thinks it’s affirmative.

Great. Now he just has to plan a party.

 

David thinks he’s done pretty well, considering. He may have done too well, given Patrick’s expression when he comes in.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks, picking up the tray from the dining table.

“Wow. Those are near-fluorescent.”

“Well, it _is_ a Sex and the City party.”

“Ah.” The people wearing suits and cocktail dresses start making a lot of sense. “This wouldn’t happen to be revenge for the football party, would it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. It was just a fun, spontaneous idea I had sometime between last Friday and now.”

“Mm.”

“So, which one are you?”

“Which what?”

“Carrie, Samantha, Miranda, Charlotte-”

“Oh, I have no idea.”

David huffs a sigh and swipes at his phone. “Here, do the quiz.”

Patrick goes through the questions. “I got Miranda.”

David gives him a sympathetic look.

“Is that bad?”

“Not _exactly_.”

Patrick hands the phone back. “Your go.”

“Oh, I don’t need to. I know I’m a Samantha.”

“…Shouldn’t you just make sure?”

David narrows his eyes and snatches the phone back., swiping through the options.

Patrick watches as a fast-tracked display of the five stages of grief crosses his face.

“This test is rigged.”

He crowds David to see his result. “Carrie. Isn’t she the main one?”

“I am _not_ a Carrie.”

Patrick holds up the tray. “Do you need a potentially-radioactive drink to deal with this apparently traumatic revelation?”

“I think this requires something a little stronger,” David says, heading to the snack table and grabbing a cupcake.

Patrick tries one too. “These are _shockingly_ good,” he says, mirroring David’s tone. “Did you make them?”

“They’re a Ruby Estez creation,” comes a voice from behind the table. “I provide the catering on condition that David tells all his guests who’s responsible…”

“Right,” says Patrick. “And he definitely did, I just forgot. All coming back to me now. He said you were the Samantha of cooking.”

Ruby flicks her bob back. “I don’t know what means.”

“Honestly, me neither.”

“Thank God,” Ruby says. “Another one of the uninitiated.”

“Does the hazing come later?”

Rubi laughs more than David thinks is entirely warranted.

And, oh God, she’s _gazing_ at him, and David very much needs to get out of there.

“The punch.” David says. “I should…check it. Make sure Jaxxon hasn’t spiked it yet.”

 

David keeps himself occupied, greeting guests and bringing around canapes and tasting copious amounts of the definitely-spiked punch.

But he can’t avoid Patrick forever. Not when he’s the only one who stays behind to clean up.

 

“You don’t have to stay, really. I’m sure you have plans-”

“Nope. I’m all yours.”

Patrick flushes a little when he realises what he’s said. David takes pity on him.

“So, you and Ruby…what’s happening there?”

“Nothing. Why, do you and her-”

“No.”

Patrick smiles, and David thinks maybe he answered a little too quickly.

“Me dating a caterer…” he explains, “it would be like an alcoholic dating a bartender.”

“…Cost-effective?”

“Right. _That’s_ what I was going to say.”

Patrick grins and it quickly turns into a yawn.

“Oh my God. You really can’t stay awake after 10, huh?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re an 80 year-old.” David shuffles him towards the door. ”Get some sleep.”

“Thanks,” says Patrick, “for tonight. I thought maybe next Saturday, if you wanted to, we could go to-”

“Let me guess,” David says, flashing back to the football party, “a baseball game? Possibly a jiu-jitsu class?

“Dinner. Maybe a baseball game down the line. If you’re lucky.”

David blinks. “Yes. I mean, no to the baseball game, but uh, yes. To dinner.”

Patrick smiles wider than anyone’s ever smiled at the prospect of dinner with David.

“Great. I’ll pick you up around seven. See you then, Carrie.” Patrick closes the door before David can protest.

David tries to muster up a glare. He ends up with a smile instead.

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't willing to actually watch SATC but I did do a single Buzzfeed quiz on the characters. Basically the most research I've ever done.


End file.
